


Come Back and Haunt Me

by epeolatry



Series: Sexual Revolution [3]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Asexual Character, Bathroom Sex, Dirty Talk, Drunk Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Masturbation, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Confusion, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 04:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/807026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/epeolatry/pseuds/epeolatry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Enjolras is terribly confused and Grantaire is drunk and horny.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Back and Haunt Me

If anyone had asked Grantaire that evening why he had directed his steps to the Café Musain rather than the Corinthe where he was usually able to beg a few free drinks from Musichetta, he would have punched them in the throat in lieu of an answer; he had no answer for himself.

 

All he knew as he walked through the increasingly gentrified streets that led to the well-heeled university quarter was that Enjolras was an impossible fixation, and he very definitely hoped _not_ to run into him, despite Jehan’s desire to play matchmaker.

 

He had already downed an entire bottle of wine just to convince himself to leave the flat, but his body was so used to inebriation that he was only slightly affected by the alcohol in his system as he entered the dimly lit Café.

 

His first thought was that ‘Café’ was a misnomer, because this was clearly a bar, albeit one entirely furnished with squashy armchairs and low tables. His second thought was knocked out of him along with all the air in his lungs as Jehan thudded into him in an enthusiastic bear hug.

 

“You came!”

 

“Uh, yeah…” stammered Grantaire, trying to extricate himself from Jehan and his loudly coloured sweater, “Look, I can’t stay long, ‘Chetta’s got me a shift at the bar in a few hours, so- ”

 

“Come on, I’ll introduce you to everyone!”

 

Grantaire had no choice but to allow himself to be led away by the surprisingly strong grip of Jehan’s slim scholar’s fingers around his paint splattered wrist.

 

“So you’ve probably met most of us before, but I’ll give you a refresher course anyway. That’s Combeferre, the tall one in the glasses-”

 

A tall, serious looking young man with light, mousy coloured hair and square rimmed glasses raised a hand in greeting.

 

“- That’s Courfeyrac -”

 

An extremely good-looking youth wearing a low cut v-neck t-shirt that showed off a smooth, tanned chest waggled his eyebrows and blew a kiss in a parody of seduction.

 

“- Joly -”

 

Another bespectacled student tried to wave hello but was forced to redirect his hand to cover his nose as he sneezed explosively.

 

“- Marius and Cosette, the law student and the professor’s daughter, it was _meant to be_ ,” sighed Jehan dreamily.

 

If Grantaire had anything to say about ‘ _meant to be_ ’s he held his tongue. The entwined couple were too caught up in each other to notice the newcomer, sweet, dopey Marius gazing lovingly at Cosette with the goofy smile of one who cannot believe his luck, and beautiful Cosette chattering animatedly as she absent-mindedly combed her fingers through her long, blonde hair.

 

“And of course, you already know our fearless leader, Enjolras.”

 

Grantaire felt his stomach clench as Enjolras’ piercing blue eyes met his, and the blonde nodded once in curt greeting before returning to his speechifying. Grantaire briefly wondered at how quickly the open wound on the student’s forehead had healed, and how the red welt that remained seemed to enhance rather than mar his natural beauty, underscoring the perfection by breaking into it, breaking through it, making him human rather than marble…

 

“- And that’s it. Come join us!”

 

Jehan’s fingers were still wrapped firmly around Grantaire’s wrist, and he allowed himself to be pulled over to a sofa which was occupied by a very out-of-place looking Montparnasse whose lap was quickly occupied by Jehan. After a moment of indecision, Grantaire settled himself on the arm of the chair.

 

Grantaire was grateful for the silent presence of Montparnasse – another outsider – as well as the drink that he was handed. It quickly became apparent that this was not his scene at all; Enjolras’ righteous haranguing and the lightning fast rebuttals and interjections of his comrades on topics as diverse as military history, gender politics, and local council by-laws skimmed over his head. Grantaire shot a look of scepticism at Montparnasse, hardly believing that these wide-eyed student revolutionaries could take themselves so seriously, making pretty speeches about changing the world when none of them had even experienced life outside the protective confines of an educational institution. Montparnasse shrugged nonchalantly, his nimble fingers gliding through Jehan’s hair while his dark eyes glazed over, his thoughts clearly elsewhere.

 

Grantaire did what he always did in situations when no other occupation presented itself; he reached into his bag and pulled out his sketchbook.

 

The meeting (for this was certainly not a casual gathering of friends, Grantaire had quickly divined, it was a _meeting_ with an _agenda_ and a _minute taker_ and all attendant formalities) lasted well over an hour. During this time Grantaire managed to take a fairly good likeness of the scene, and he was particularly happy with the detail on Jehan’s floral printed trousers, the freckles that skittered haphazardly across Marius’ face, and the individual strands of Cosette’s long hair that fell over her face as she perused a fashion magazine. He was just working on the detail of Enjolras’ military-style jacket when a voice in his ear made his pencil jump.

 

“You didn’t listen to a word, did you?”

 

He looked up and found himself caught in the clear blue gaze of Enjolras. Suddenly he felt like a schoolboy again, caught out daydreaming in the back of an important lesson.

 

“Um…”

 

“That’s good,” Enjolras interjected, catching sight of the sketch before Grantaire could hide it, “That’s _really_ good. Are you an art student?”

 

A harsh laugh escaped Grantaire before he could swallow it; “As if I could afford the tuition fees! No, I’m self taught,” he finished with a mixture of defiance and embarrassment.

 

If anything, Enjolras looked even more impressed with the drawing, which now appeared hopelessly inadequate to Grantaire.

 

“Do you do freelance illustration?”

 

“When I can.”

 

“Would you consider doing some design work for our flyers and pamphlets?”

 

“Would I be paid?”

 

Damn. That came out sounding much more mercenary than he had intended.

 

Luckily Enjolras laughed. A rich, chesty laugh that made Grantaire wish that sounds could be painted.

 

“Never ask an artist to work for free! No, I get it -” Enjolras quickly added, as Grantaire opened his mouth to amend his harsh phrasing, “- No, really. I respect it actually. We’re a non-profit organisation, but I’m sure we can work something out. For a start I can buy you a drink and we can discuss the project, as I’m pretty sure you didn’t hear most of the meeting.”

 

Grantaire was so taken aback by the glib offer from the beautiful student that he merely nodded dumb consent and found himself being steered towards the bar. Through the window he caught a glimpse of Jehan and Montparnasse sharing a cigarette, the first grinning widely and giving him the thumbs up, and the second smirking obscenely.

 

They sat together at the bar, Enjolras buying the drinks and Grantaire playing the part of enraptured audience member, listening intently but not really hearing a word that dropped from the blonde’s lips; when Jehan asked him the next morning what he had been talking about with the law student for an hour and a half, the artist would be bereft of an answer.

 

He was losing himself in the other boy’s voice, its strength, tone, timbre, and above all the passion infused in each carefully chosen word, the fire interwoven in the finely tuned rhetoric. It was a voice that brooked no argument, a voice well used to being well used, as steady and sure and irreproachable as the voice of God. A voice that would issue commands, would growl rather than whimper, and at the very apex of feeling it would shout openly, rapturously, rather than cursing breathlessly, incoherently, as Grantaire’s own hoarse, smoke damaged voice did…

 

“You know there are student loans, scholarships… If you wanted to study we could work something out for you, I’m sure of it. I feel very strongly that everyone is entitled to an education.”

 

Uh oh. Grantaire realised too late that they were talking about _him_ , a topic he generally avoided as assiduously as possible.

 

Enjolras was looking at him steadily, a shrewd gleam in those cool, clear eyes as he awaited an answer.

 

“Uh… no,” stammered Grantaire, trying desperately to keep from slurring in front of his near-sober benefactor, “I mean, I’ve looked into all that stuff before. It’s just not workable. Academia never really was my thing anyway.”

 

“To each his own,” conceded Enjolras, surprising Grantaire who had expected at least a small amount of peer pressure from the summa cum laude student, “But if you ever change your mind I’d be happy to help. I don’t like to boast but I’ve been pretty instrumental in a number of schemes designed to help disadvantaged students pay their way through university or technical college.”

 

Had Éponine been present she would have bristled at the word ‘disadvantaged’, but Grantaire merely smirked wryly into his drink.

 

“You know, if you really wanted to help ease my dire financial situation you could tell me more about this design work you want done…”

 

A look of wariness shot across Enjolras’ handsome face, and he said in a measured voice, “Like I said earlier, financial recompense is not really within my power to- ”

 

Grantaire chuckled, “Calm down, I’m joking. Actually I’ve got a bar shift in twenty minutes so I gotta run. Pass me my bag?”

 

Still looking wary, Enjolras reached down between the two bar stools they occupied and easily lifted the artist’s paint smeared bag as Grantaire tried not to look at the arch of bronzed skin where neck met collarbone, or the smooth movement of shoulder muscles beneath the thin t-shirt that rode up just enough to reveal tanned skin and a sculpted hip…

 

“Here,” said the golden boy simply as he handed over the bag, unconscious of the dark-eyed appraisal he was receiving.

 

“Uh, thanks.”

 

Grantaire mentally shook himself, bemoaning the fact that he was at least six drinks ahead of the level-headed law student beside him, and he was unlikely to ever see any more than that enticing sliver of skin, that jut of hip…

 

_Until he got home later tonight and casually decided to practise sketching nudes…_

 

He tore a corner of paper out of his sketchbook and scribbled a few digits on it.

 

“Here, this is my number and you already know where I live. Give me a call sometime and we can sort out this art thing.”

 

Enjolras nodded once and slipped the paper into his pocket; Grantaire slid off his bar stool, clapped the blonde on the shoulder and exited the Café, feeling that on the whole he’d handled the entire situation much more smoothly than it had been reasonable to hope he might, especially considering that he was already half-hard inside his jeans after catching that pathetic glimpse of Enjolras’ bare skin. Now all he had to do was get to the Corinthe and convince Musichetta that he wasn’t already an hour late for the shift that she had begged her sleazy manager to give him…

 

Enjolras watched Grantaire leave with a thoughtful look on his handsome features; any of his friends would have thought that he was merely contemplating how best the artist could help his cause. But the law student’s casual expression belied his inner turmoil as foreign and unsettling feelings twisted confusingly in his gut, feelings prompted by Grantaire’s smile, his dark, unruly hair, his nimble, callused fingers, the chaotic tattoos that swept his skin, the laughter in his green eyes and the glimmer of something deeper, something sadder, there too… Most worrying of all – worse than the twisting, swooping sensation in his stomach when Grantaire had first walked in, worse than the plummeting, disappointed heat that had swept through him when the other boy left so abruptly – was the stirring in his trousers as his thoughts lingered on the artist…

 

Enjolras reddened slightly as he glanced around the Musain, ensuring that none of his friends were looking his way when he was in such an uncomfortable position. It was nothing really, his cock wasn’t even half-hard, it was just the tentative beginnings of arousal and he ruthlessly quashed the sensation before it could grow into any more than that. All the same, it left an unsettled emptiness inside the law student, who hadn’t experienced such stirrings in a very long time, and was fairly convinced that he never wanted to experience them again, especially so unbidden.

 

Turning away from the door whence Grantaire had exited, Enjolras busily shuffled the notes in front of him, returned them to his messenger bag, and hailed Combeferre over to the bar to continue discussing their latest campaign.

 

**

 

Later that night Grantaire had been sent home early from the bar by Musichetta, who had insisted loudly to her manager that the artist was suffering from ‘flu rather than being head-spinningly drunk. He was lying alone in the bed (read: mattress on the floor) that he shared with Éponine, who wouldn’t be home for another few hours, sweat-soaked and cursing the patriarchy but with her bra stuffed with cash.

 

He pulled out his battered phone – an old Nokia, scuffed and scratched but indestructible, and far better suited to his penniless, inebriated lifestyle than anything fancier. Jehan had carefully entered all of his friends’ phone numbers into it earlier in the evening, and Grantaire blearily selected Combeferre’s number.

 

GRANTAIRE

Is Enj gay?

 

So the message wasn’t terribly subtle, but he knew that Combeferre was closest to Enjolras in the group and hoped that the peremptory drunkenness of his text would invite a similarly direct reply.

 

COMBEFERRE

No one’s entirely certain. He claims not

to be a virgin but as no one has ever

seen him display any interest in either

sex we think that he might

misunderstand the meaning of the

word…

 

It was a better answer than ‘no’ at least, Grantaire consoled himself. If Enjolras was uninterested in sex in general then it meant that no one else could have him either, though it did seem like a waste of such a beautiful body… That golden blonde hair, falling just above his shoulders; that bronzed skin, so flawless that it made Grantaire want to suck bruises into it; that broad chest, where Grantaire imagined well-defined muscles stretching under the teasingly fitted t-shirts that seemed to be a penchant for the student…

 

Without realising it, Grantaire’s hand had wandered down to his crotch, the heel of his palm pressing down on the growing bulge of his half-hard cock as he slipped deeper into a fantasy of undressing Enjolras.

 

He imagined that he’d stayed longer at the Café Musain, long enough for Enjolras to get a little drunk, a little giggly, a little handsy… They would stumble into one another laughing, then Enjolras would look at Grantaire, their eyes locking for a few significant seconds that felt like the end of the world and the beginning of a whole new universe, and then the blonde would press his lips into Grantaire’s in a desperate kiss. It would be drunk and needy and perfectly filthy, there would be teeth and tongues clashing, and Enjolras’ hands would tangle tightly in Grantaire’s hair…

 

Grantaire could feel himself getting harder just at the thought of kissing Enjolras, and he unbuttoned his jeans, slipping a hand inside his boxers to stroke himself as he squeezed his eyes shut and immersed himself in the fantasy.

 

Enjolras would grab Grantaire’s hand and drag him out the back of the bar to the toilets, and as soon as the cubicle door slammed shut behind them the student would shove Grantaire against it and kiss him again fiercely, pressing their bodies together against the graffitied door in a dirty, desperate rut.

 

Grantaire groaned quietly into the dark room, pausing just long enough to shuck off his jeans and boxers entirely and grab the almost empty bottle of lube from the chest of drawers before reseating himself on the mattress and taking himself in hand again, this time with the added benefit of lubrication.

 

Enjolras would be palming him roughly through his trousers, whispering filth in his ear as he kept him pinned to the door in the tiny cubicle, telling him he was gonna fuck him hard and fast and mercilessly and there was nothing he could do about it, telling him that he was gonna make him scream right there in the Café, where all of their friends might hear, where anyone might walk into the bathroom at any moment and hear them at it…

 

Grantaire groaned and bucked up into his fist at the thought.

 

Then Enjolras would spin him around so that Grantaire was braced face-first against the closed door, the student would drag his jeans roughly off and he would hear the snick of a cap being flicked off lube before Enjolras’ cold, wet finger was circling his entrance. No preamble, no foreplay, just a quick, dirty fuck in a public toilet, with Enjolras’ fist in his hair and his low, commanding voice in his ear telling him to _fucking take it_ as he slid two fingers immediately inside the artist and curled them viciously, searching for the spot that would make Grantaire howl.

 

Grantaire groaned louder as he slid a finger inside himself while continuing to jerk off.

 

Enjolras would add another slick finger, curling all three until Grantaire was all but sobbing, pushing back on his wicked hand and begging him, _please please please_ just fuck me Enjolras, _please_. And then the student would comply with the mewling artist’s cries, withdrawing his fingers lazily and slicking up his magnificent cock before pressing it lightly, _teasingly_ , against Grantaire’s entrance…

 

Grantaire was close now and he added a second finger, stretching himself and sinking gladly into the burning sensation it produced, imagining Enjolras pushing inside him, insisting, demanding…

 

Enjolras would push in harshly, giving Grantaire only just enough time to adjust before pulling out and thrusting back in again savagely, making Grantaire’s knees almost buckle as he was slammed bodily into the door, unable to resist the brute force of Enjolras’ fucking. He would reach around with those same filthy fingers that had prepared the artist and grab his leaking cock, pumping him in time with his quick, deep thrusts and all the while whispering into Grantaire’s ear, you’re mine, you belong to me, I’m going to make you scream my name _and you’re going to love it_ , making the artist whimper and groan as he was fucked into oblivion in a public toilet.

 

Grantaire came into his fist with a string of curse words broken only by a long groaning rendition of Enjolras’ name. He fell back onto the bed panting, his hand covered in his seed and his face flushed with the vividness of the fantasy. His breathing had only just levelled out when he heard a scraping at the front door, which indicated that Éponine was drunkenly trying to sink her key into the lock.

 

“Oh _fuck_ ,” he swore, and scrambled to get himself cleaned off and redressed before she could walk in and make him sleep on the couch for jerking off in their shared bed again.


End file.
